Ghouls, Story 4 of 4: Kyle's Story
by OllieLemur
Summary: Kyle-the Camarilla's scapegoat ghoul for the Elysium Massacre-contemplates how he fell in with a Nosferatu in New Orleans and NYC, and if there is a more permanent solution to his problems. "With Cam-held NYC rocked by the frenzy-inducing Red Plague, the fallout reshapes the lives of those unfortunates connected to Kindred society." T or M rating, not sure. Sex, drugs, language.


**Ghouls**

**Part Four: Kyle**

The first few hits wake me up from the booze like a scorpion bite. Well, Zane, old buddy, old pal, we did what we could. At least I don't remember how I got up on this stage. Guess they judged me guilty of making a phone call. Lenore's right: the Camarilla's a bunch of hypocrites.

This whip hurts like a motherfucker. Zane's not pulling his punches, or whippings, or whatever it's called.

There's a sound coming out my throat that I didn't put there. Am I screaming? Man, I can't believe I'm being such a bitch!

And all those vamps are watching me squirm. What, you like this? Bet they're storing it away for later so they can jerk off thinking about me dying up here. Do vampires even jerk off? I hope they do. I want to know that, when I'm gone, they're doing it thinking of me. That sounds just about fucked up enough to be worth all this.

My blood's dripping down my back and legs now. I can feel it getting into my socks and boots. Fuck, that sucks.

The next few hits and I can't even scream. My vision's getting blurred.

A few more strikes and I'm out.

That's it. The end. Turn the house lights up.

* * *

I hear Ma's voice calling me to get ready for school. I try to get out of bed, but my arms ain't working and the bed is like molasses.

I'm dreaming. Or dying.

Ma. Geez. I haven't thought about her in years.

You know, she never said she was disappointed in me; she was a level broad like that. But her voice always hung around the tone of, "I want _you_ to want better _for_ you." And that was without her knowing any of the details!

I haven't even spoken to her since before the levee broke. I let her believe I got washed out into the Gulf to make it easier on her.

I remember, once, I was thinking about trying out that Facebook thing. But when I saw my little cousin's page, she had a link to my missing person's profile and one to the "In Loving Memory" website our family had made. A whole site about me, filled with condolences and stories from people I could hardly remember. I felt like such a shit. And there was over a hundred pictures, all twenty and thirty years old from wrestling meets and school dances and New York City Halloweens. Yeah, no thanks, I didn't need the guilt trip of coming out of hiding after however many years. I was raised Catholic; got all the guilt I needed right there.

If this is my Judgment Day, and if I'm still a Catholic, I think I'm going to Hell. I've done a lot of things that Ma's God would not just be upset about but probably shriek in terror at.

What do you have to do to formally get out of the Church, anyway? Is there somewhere I was supposed to send a letter of resignation the first time I blew a guy for an ounce? Or could I have gone up to any random priest on the street? Said, "Yo, Father, I thought you should know I've been a stripper the past six months to pay the bookies I owe, and I helped a coworker kill a guy who was abusing him."

I mean… I have _done_ some shit. Try anything once, that's my motto. Twice if you can't remember doing it the first time.

I don't think Ma's God even wants me to go to Hell. He probably cut me out of any Almighty Plan ten years back. Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I doubt God's plans ever involved a good little Catholic boy falling in with a crazy, sadistic vampire.

* * *

I can't move. But there's water, so I drink. I see pretty, brown eyes looking at me, frantic, scared. It's for me they're afraid. So I pull up a smile.

I pass back out.

* * *

While I'm dreaming, I remember this hot little piece I used to know in New Orleans. I was down for Mardi Gras when I met her working at one of those tourist shops selling voodoo artifacts. I let her read my tarot; and she let me eat her out in the St. Louis Cemetery.

We spent a lot of the week together. I learned that she'd moved there from Ohio after college. Women's Studies, she said, was a joke. But she always made me watch my tone when I would laugh at that mystical huju she worked with. She kept saying how I didn't know who I was going to upset.

Then, maybe to prove a point, she took me to a Mardi Gras party like nothing I'd ever heard of. I'd already finished three drinks by the time we showed up at what I guess was a three-story house once upon a time. You know, before the swamp and the creeping plants decided to take back what was theirs.

My girl told me it used to be a plantation. I asked her if she was looking for a little master-slave role play that night, but she just sneered at me and said, "The party's inside. Let's go."

It was only a few more steps towards the house before I could _feel_ the base line pumping out of that crumbling old building. Before we got there I'd been expecting some kid's stereo and a few kegs of beer. What I got was practically a club, light show and all.

The whole crowd was on something, I swear. In the mansion's ballroom, I saw more lips on the girls shaking it than my drunk-ass could count.

My voodoo girl disappeared with the host for a while, this real punk dude with big goggle-looking shades covering his eyes. I don't mean punk like a pussy, I mean punk like crawled into New Orleans after the bender he'd been on since the seventies. He even claimed to hang out with Jello Biafra and Iggy Pop back in the day. Yeah, maybe, when he was like, what? Five years old?

Crazy fucker!

I gave him this one though: dude knew how to scare up a good time.

I plopped my ass down on a beat-to-shit antique sofa to try whatever bottle and bong were passed to me before hot rolling some meth. After that, the whole party could have sat around singing Beatles songs and it still would have been the best rave I'd ever hit.

When my girl came back from the host, she wanted to introduce us. I told her I'd do whatever she wanted, so long as after she'd use some of her spells to help the meth-induced hard-on I was sporting.

The host's name was Zee. He owned the place, or so he said. He asked me how I liked the party, and I let him know.

My girl told me she was getting a drink and left the room.

I didn't see her after that.

Zee and I shot the shit for a few minutes, which is when he told me about his punk rock days. This Spanish cutie perched on the arm of the couch next to him asked where I came from, so I told them that too. Gave them the whole run down of being on vacation and having a good time. I almost didn't want to hop in my car and head back on Monday.

Zee said I didn't necessarily have to leave, not if I didn't want to. There were always jobs for guys like me down there. Bartending. Bouncing. Muscle.

The cutie offered me some wine, but I turned it down, saying I never got the taste for the stuff. That made Zee laugh.

"Always best from the source, anyway," he cackled.

Then he lunged across the table at me, pinned me down, and ripped open his throat.

After that night, I figured I could extend my vacation for a few years and no one would notice.

I wish I had ever seen my voodoo girl again. I never got around to checking out her shop after that. Damn sure I would have told her I was sorry for laughing.

* * *

What's this? Am I awake again? Who _is_ this chick? Should I know her?

Ah, fuck! The water is too damn cold. My lips too dry. I can't take it, so I spit it out. But it just dribbles down my chin.

I'm too tired for this shit.

* * *

No dreams this time, boy. Just blissful nothingness. Enjoy it.

* * *

The sun is down. Waking up doesn't hurt.

I can drink more this time so I take what I can on the off chance I might pull through. I'm still convinced I'm going to die out here.

Is that… Cherry? I must still be asleep.

* * *

I remember, when the hurricane came, we had a party. All the crazy fuckers we knew who also ignored the warnings from FEMA came out to celebrate. If we were going to die, we'd do it New Orlean's style.

When it was over, the place was a wreck from the rains, but we could have rebuilt. The party did more damage to the mansion than Katrina did, I joked.

But when the levee broke and the flood waters washed away most of the city, that's when Zee changed his name to Zane and said it was time to go.

I found out later from Lenore that some guys Zane used to know had got into the city. I figured them for bad news if Zane didn't even want to be in the same state with them.

We drove around the country for a few years, stopping here and there, making a few bucks and taking a few lives. Eventually, Zane needed somewhere more permanent.

That's when I remembered I used to have a home before Mardi Gras. I told Lenore I might have some connections still, and her and Zane thought it over. It was Camarilla territory, he said. If there are bad guys and worse guys in the world of vampires, at least the Camarilla were not the worst. It might work. Might have the protection we needed from Zane's old buddies.

So we made the trip to New York City. As Lenore drove over the George Washington Bridge, I could have drank up the sight of the city at night.

I hadn't been home in nine years.

* * *

I wake up screaming. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The girl seems happy I'm awake when the scream stops tearing at my vocal chords. I want to ask her how long I've been out here but I don't have words in there.

Is this a roof? And what the hell am I chained to? Oh, come on. Who's bullshit idea was this?

Hey, sweetheart, if you ever had any fantasies about forced male submission, you'll never get a better chance than this! We can make it happen.

Get that water away. You know what I need, so find a vamp and open a vein already. Let's go!

* * *

The Brujah want me. Bad. They're haunting my dreams now. Can vampires do that? Fuck 'em if they can.

_Sang's_, the club Zane started in New York the past year we've been here, has a bunch of Brujah regulars. There's this one group that hangs out most nights. Drew Blood's crew. One of them—he won't say who, which makes me think it could as easily be him—has been on me about the Embrace. That's their fancy word for killing a guy and bringing him back from the dead as one of them. Drew agrees with his buddy, thinks I would be "an asset to Clan Brujah."

Makes me giggle. Like no shit giggle.

Clan Brujah can suck my hairy ass. Sniping other people's help isn't my style. I'm loyal to Zane. If Zane doesn't want to offer any Embrace, I don't need it.

Besides, I'm all for new experiences, but being a vampire's a bit on the permanent side. No going back on that one. No second chances.

Still. They got me thinking.

* * *

. . . Lenore? That really you?

Ah, kid, am I glad to see you! Now I can sleep, 'cause while I might be dying I know I can't be dead if you're here.

Thank you.

She's telling me the girl who's been here the whole time is named Danya. She's the old Prince's toy. She might be an angel though for all she's put up with from me.

Okay, kid. I'll drink. But you better get me something stronger soon.

* * *

About a week ago, Zane told me that some Big Wig vampires needed to see him and me about the bloodbath at _Sang's_ on April Fool's. He said they were calling us in for judgment. He ran through the possibilities and the Embrace came up. It would be a punishment, he said, on account of I'd end up like him.

Ugly I could handle. Blind was something else. But that wasn't what hung me up. I knew Zane got along fine without his sight. No. It was that forever thing again.

I thought about it some more. I gave it more serious thinking than anything I've thought about since meeting him.

Then I asked Zane, if it came down to it, if he knew how to fuck it up. The Embrace. He said yeah, he could do that for me.

That's all I needed to know.

* * *

Three months. That's how long before Zane can let me drink again. It's not his fault, but what a cock move! Camarilla bitches don't know what they've sentenced me to.

Or maybe they do and that's the point.

Everyone's being delicate with me, even the other ghouls like Cherry and Danya, who visited me every night for two weeks after the roof before she stopped coming around.

Svetlana cries when she sees me.

In her mismatched English, she tells me how horrible and mean Zane is, which amuses the hell out of me. She says she's never going to forgive him.

"I only hope that Miss Stevie would think very, very seriously about Mister Zane after this," Svetlana says, talking about the vampire who she ghouls for.

I tell her it's no big deal. Frankly, and I don't tell her this, it's a shock anyone could feel badly for me at this point.

* * *

When the stitches are out and I can lift more than five pounds at a time, Zane tells me he's taking me off the door at _Sang's_. He says he needs me inside. I know he's the boss; I know he's probably being nice, probably because Lenore asked him to take it easy on me for a while. But I don't like it.

I'm managing and scheduling the staff now and working the bar. Thank whatever God still exists Zane said he's keeping me downstairs instead of the expanded upstairs when it opens.

I do my job. I earn my keep. But I'm not earning like I used to. I've seen the new guys Zane had to bring on, and I know they're not all here for the club's expansion.

One night in early June, Cherry's sitting at the bar. It's one of her nights off from the casino in Atlantic City, but she's not here to dance. Her "boyfriend" Rusty is spoiling her tonight, I heard her telling one of the new bartender girls.

I catch Cherry staring at me before we open. I move with carefully planned motions, taking down the chairs after Lenore's finished sweeping.

To Cherry, I say, "See something you like?"

She smiles, but casts her eyes down all embarrassed.

Nice.

I walk behind the bar and lean over it at her. "What?"

Her big blue Bambi eyes are staring over at me like they might tear up. "I'm real sorry, Kyle."

"Why's that, doll?"

"I couldn't do it." She sighs. "I tried. I tried real hard. But I had to. I just had to!"

I smile and tug on her chin. "You're doing fine, kiddo."

"No, you don't get it," she says as she pulls away. Whatever she did has got her some kind of upset. "I had to drink. Here. I'll show ya."

Cherry reaches into her handbag. She sets a tiny day planner on the counter, open for me to see.

It takes me a moment to get what she means by it. But then I see the date she started crossing them off and I know what she tried to do.

April Twenty-Fifth. The first day of the rest of my life, or so they say. She made it twelve days.

Cherry's whispering, "I can't even think what hell it's been for you."

* * *

I try not to bring it up a lot, but my back kills. My neck and shoulders, too. It's been almost five months, and they're still healing. I know working through the pain is not the best thing I could be doing right now. So I take breaks when it gets unbearable. I never used to need breaks!

I disguise them as cravings when I can and duck out back for a cigarette. Which means Lenore tends to join me.

"Bum one from you?"

I pass her a Marlboro and she lights it off mine like she always does. When we were first hanging out, back in New Orleans, I used to hate how she never used a lighter if I'd already lit up. But I got used to it. Then I realized she didn't do it with everyone. I liked that. It made her feel a little more open, made us a little bit closer.

The smoke curls out of her mouth as she says, "How's the back today?"

"Not too bad."

She glances at me with a look that says she knows me, and then inhales again.

I smirk at her.

Lenore's been paying close attention because I'm going up the pain killer chart like it's a race. Vicodin one week, percocet the next, and then on to oxycontin. Lenore says she knows my addictive personality, and doesn't want to get me on morphine unless she has to. I say, skip the morphine and let's try out this fentanyl or dialaudid. Where can I get my hands on that?

Ten years in three months. That's what I aged, and I'm feeling it creeping into my bones.

Yeah, with a drink or two from Zane I can still take more than a normal forty-something, but I'm not going to be fucking on the floor and breaking shit like I used to. How am I gonna catch the co-eds when I look old enough to be their Uncle Touchy?

Fuck. I don't _look_ that old: I _am_ that old. I'm a grizzled old lion at the end of my run as alpha. That scares the hell out of me.

I don't like failing Zane and Lenore, either. Makes me feel like my time's up. Which gets me thinking about Drew and his crew's offer. I don't want to lose my guys, but what if I can't figure out what I have left to offer them like this?

Maybe…

Maybe it's time to do a little more serious thinking.

* * *

**-END SERIES**

**Author Note: Thank you very much for reading, especially if you made it all the way here to the end. ^_^ I would love feedback, especially in regards to whether or not this all made sense. The ghouls only get so much info, being that they're not vampires themselves, so I would be interested in if feels like enough info for you, the reader. Other than that... thanks!**


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